


Operation Outpost

by YetAnotherPersona



Category: Firebringer - Team StarKid, Hatchetfield Universe - Team StarKid
Genre: Ableism, Awkward Romance, Gen, Holiday Fic Exchange, Science Fiction, Who knows what Paul and Emma's deal is tbh, Zombie Apocalypse, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28466205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YetAnotherPersona/pseuds/YetAnotherPersona
Summary: General McNamara takes his last stand against the alien invaders.Emma screams in terror as the zombies close in around her.Paul fights against the musical madness seeking to control his mind.And high above the Earth, someone else is watching...
Relationships: Paul Matthews & Emma Perkins
Kudos: 12





	1. McNamara

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story for the StarCan Comedy Discord server's Secret Snape exchange! My recipient was Nyxa. Hi Nyxa; hope you enjoy!

General McNamara sprints up the top floor stairs of the Hatchetfield Mall and bursts through the door leading onto the roof. He turns, slams the door behind him, and whips a metal disc off his belt which he presses against its seam, just above the handle. It activates, deploying six automatic screws that drill into the metal and concrete, sealing the door shut. For Now.

The general reaches for his radio. “Peters, do you copy? This is McNamara. We’ve lost the mall. Requesting urgent pickup from the roof. Over.”

McNamara waits for several seconds, but no answer comes on the radio. An explosion somewhere below shakes the mall’s foundations, and one or two voices drop out of the assailants’ eerie chorus.

McNamara tries again. “Peters, do you read me? I repeat, we have lost the mall. Requesting pickup from the roof. Over.”

Still no answer. Over the distant sounds of battle and his own blood pounding in his ears, McNamara hears something else: the clanging of footsteps on the metal stairs he just ascended. He curses and turns back to the door, bracing as the footsteps get closer, one hand on his holstered pistol and the other still cradling the radio.

The pace of the footsteps is leisurely – whoever’s coming is in no rush. As they grow louder, McNamara notices their unnatural, metronomic rhythm. He shivers.

The footsteps grow louder until they’re right on the other side of the door, and then stop. There’s a pause during which the whole world contracts to just the soldier, his gun, and the barricaded door opposite him.

The new arrival knocks. A neat shave-and-a-haircut rhythm, as precise and inhuman as the footsteps that preceded it.

The general chooses not to answer.

“General McNamaraaaa...” the visitor calls in a lilting voice. “Open the doo-oor...”

The handle turns, and the door jostles in its frame. McNamara draws his pistol and removes the safety catch. The intruder pushes against the door one more time, then gives up.

“General McNamaraaaa... what’cha hiding fo-or...?”

“That doesn’t scan,” McNamara calls scathingly. “You guys want to take over the planet, and you can’t even put together a decent couplet?”

The infected human drops their sing-song voice, and speaks with a sneer. “Your troops brought us plenty of explosives, general. We’ll be back soon enough. Just got a bit more cleaning up to do.” There’s another explosion, closer than the last, and the door rattles.

“See you in a minute,” the alien says cheerfully. The general hears its footsteps retreating down the stairs, still at that perfectly even tempo. He lifts his hand from his pistol with a disgruntled sigh.

Great. It’ll take the aliens two minutes tops to come back up here with a grenade and blow the door open. McNamara wonders if he should even bother radioing for help again. He’ll most likely be dead before the chopper arrives. He’s steeling himself for a heroic last stand when the radio crackles to life in his hand.

“John! Need me to save your neck?” asks Peters’ voice.

McNamara breathes a sigh of relief. “Yeah, Peters, that’d be swell. Over.”

The response comes immediately. “Be with ya in just a sec. Best of luck, John; give ‘em hell. Over.”

“Roger that,” McNamara responds.

He eyes the door again. Even if the aliens do breach it, the stairwell behind it will serve as a chokepoint, making it difficult for them to come through in high numbers. PEIP’s choppers are fast, and the general has plenty of ammo. If he plays his cards right, he may yet make it out of this alive. For just a moment, he allows himself to feel hopeful.

Then something clicks, and that hope dies even faster than it appeared.

“Peters,” McNamara says into the radio, his voice leaden. “You aren’t coming to get me, are you?”

“How d’you figure that, John?” Peters’ voice answers.

“You were rhyming,” McNamara says humourlessly. “Dead giveaway.”

Not-Peters laughs out loud, then speaks with a new edge of coldness in her voice. “Well, aren’t you the clever cookie. I wondered if you’d catch on.”

“Damn it, Peters,” McNamara sighs. “Is there a single person in this damn unit who  _ hasn’t  _ gotten bodyjacked by these bastard aliens?”

“Ohh, let’s see...” not-Peters hums. “There’s you, and uh... nope. That’s it, actually. Just you.”

“Shit.” McNamara mutters.

“Language, general,” the alien chortles. Then the radio goes dead.

There’s footsteps on the stairs again – several pairs this time, all sounding in perfect unison. The first alien is back with reinforcements. And they’re singing.

_ “Let us out, let us out, let us out....” _

So much for escaping, McNamara thinks bitterly. All he can do now is try to warn PEIP’s allies. He flips his radio over, presses a concealed button, and speaks into it again.

“This is Aquinas to Monolith. The Apotheosis has landed. PEIP is compromised. This will be our last transmission. Repeat, the Apotheosis has landed. PEIP is compromised. Do not trust any subsequent transmissions.”

_ “Let us out, let us out, let us out...” _

The aliens are right behind the door now. Something hits its surface with a metallic  _ clunk. _

_ “Let us out, let us out, let us out!” _

General McNamara draws his pistol and speaks into the radio one last time.

“Over and out.”

An explosion sends the door flying off its hinges. McNamara drops the radio, raises his gun, and fires into the smoke.


	2. Emma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The zombies of the Apotheosis have cornered Emma... but it's not over yet.

_“What if I told you a story_ _  
_ _How the world became peaceful and just_ _  
_ _It was inevitable_ _  
_ _Inevitable_ _  
_ _Inevitable..._

_The Apotheosis is upon UUUUUUUUS!”_

Emma screams and lunges for the hospital exit, but she’s too slow for the mass of musical zombies on her tail. They grab at her legs and shoulders, hauling her back down the corridor with unnatural strength. She stops struggling and goes limp – their song is over, they’re done toying with her; all she can hope for now is a quick death.

One of the infected sweeps Emma into its arms, and the group parts to let it carry her back into the hospital. Pain shoots through her injured leg at the sudden movement, and she yelps.

The infected picks up speed, jogging down the corridor. Emma’s leg jolts excruciatingly with each step, and she snarls in pain.

“Just fucking _kill_ me already,” she growls at the monster, shoving weakly at its chest. “I give up, okay?”

“Quiet,” it whispers in a voice that’s familiar even through heavy panting. “I’m getting you out of here, but you have to act–”

“Paul!” Emma cries. Pain blur her vision, but she twists around anyway, trying to see his face. “Paul, is that you?”

“Keep it down. Yes, it’s me,” Paul answers.

“Shit, sorry,” Emma says, dropping her voice to a whisper, even though she wants to shout with relief. “But... fuck! Paul! You’re talking to me!”

“Yeah,” Paul grunts. “And if the others catch me we’ll get torn to pieces. Hold on a second.”

He’s made a couple of turns and reached a set of double doors, Emma notices. There’s no more zombies in sight, but their voices still echo through the hospital halls. Paul turns around and leans his weight against one of the doors, stepping backwards into a room filled with empty beds. There’s a wheelchair sitting in one corner, and he carries Emma over to it without delay.

“So what’s the – fuck, ow! – what’s the plan?” Emma asks, transferring her weight from Paul’s arms to the chair.

“Get to the back exit, steal an ambulance, and get the hell out of here,” Paul replies. “That’s what I’ve got so far, anyway. I’m open to suggestions.”

“That sounds good for now,” Emma says as Paul grabs the handles of the chair and starts pushing. “God, I have so many questions.”

“I can’t promise you any answers,” Paul says. “For now, it’s best if you keep quiet and let me do the talking. And the singing.”

“Right.” Emma nods, but inside she’s surprised. Paul _singing?_ Voluntarily? If she hadn’t just witnessed it, she wouldn’t have thought it possible.

Paul pauses for just a moment to grab a plastic walking stick that’s propped up by the door, then wheels Emma out of the door and down the corridor. He seems to know where he’s going, taking turns without hesitation until at last they exit into a parking lot.

Emma breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of a row of parked ambulances, but suspends her celebration when she notices the zombie standing between them and the door. It turns, alerted by the noise of their exit, and eyes the newcomers suspiciously.

 _“What do you want, Paul?”_ it sings. Emma senses Paul tensing up behind her. He releases the wheelchair handles and grips the walking stick with both hands.

The zombie stares at him, impassive, for several seconds. And then Paul starts to sing.

 _“La dee dah dah,_ _  
_ _La dee dah dah,_ _  
_ _La dee dah dah day_

_La dee dah dah day!”_

The zombie stands still, calculating, as Paul circles the wheelchair, timing his steps with the music until he’s standing in front of Emma.

Paul clears his throat and sings again, and this time the zombie joins in, singing the same notes a fourth higher.

 _“La dee dah dah,_ _  
_ _La dee dah dah,_ _  
_ _La dee dah dah day”_

Paul steps closer to the zombie as it continues...

_“La dee dah d-”_

Paul swings the walking stick lightning fast, hitting the zombie’s head with a crack that echoes through the lot. Emma jumps; the zombie slumps to the ground and doesn’t move.

“Holy _fuck,_ Paul,” Emma hisses.

“Sorry,” Paul grimaces, bending down over the body and rolling it onto its back. “I had to take it by surprise.”

“No, I get it,” Emma reassures him. “But still. Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Paul grabs a set of keys off the zombie’s belt and picks out one that looks like a car key. He presses the button experimentally and the lights on the nearest ambulance flash.

“Nice,” compliments Emma.

“Okay,” says Paul, getting to his feet and returning to the wheelchair. “Let’s get out of here.” He pushes Emma over to the ambulance, opens its rear doors and, after a bit of fiddling, manages to deploy the ramp so that he can push the chair inside.

“I figure you should stay in the wheelchair,” he explains, “in case we need to ditch our ride in a hurry. Don’t want to waste time shifting you out of the passenger seat.”

Emma sighs. “Yeah, you’re right. Buckle me up and we can get going.” She can’t fault Paul’s logic, but she doesn’t like the way sitting in the back of the ambulance makes her feel like an invalid.

Paul turns the chair so the back is against the wall, and fastens it in place with the built-in straps before getting out and walking round to the front cabin. No zombies show up to bother them in all that time, which strikes Emma as too good to be true – but she’s not about to jinx it by mentioning it to Paul.

Paul starts up the ambulance and drives out of the parking lot.

* * *

They travel in silence until they reach the Clivesdale freeway. The roads are emptier of traffic than Emma’s ever known them – the only vehicles they encounter are wrecked or abandoned, with one exception: as they drive beneath the interstate overpass, they see a whole crowd of zombies up above, capering around their parked cars in some kind of _La-la Land-_ knockoff dance routine. Paul makes a noise of disgust before stepping on the accelerator. Soon the dancing zombies are out of sight.

Eventually Emma decides to break the silence. “So, what’s the deal? Like, what did I miss while I was asleep.”

“Where to start?” Paul says wearily. “Bad news first, I guess. Well, it’s basically all bad news.”

“I figured.”

“It’s been about a day since I blew up the meteor, and it looks like it didn’t stop the zombies. From what I can tell, the whole of Michigan is fucked. Every local channel is officially MTV.”

“Oh, God,” Emma groans sympathetically.

“The good news, such as it is,” continues Paul, “is that the loss of the meteor has set them back pretty badly. They’re... disorganised. I think they have a harder time communicating with each other, especially in big groups.”

“Is that why they didn’t try to stop us from leaving the hospital?” Emma asks.

“Partly. There’s also... something else.”

“You can sing with them, right?” Emma prompts.

“Right,” Paul confirms.

“What happened?”

“After I blew up the meteor, I got knocked unconscious. I don’t know if I even survived the blast, or if I died and the aliens just rebuilt my body... but either way, once I woke up, none of them attacked me. I figured out pretty quickly that they’d leave me alone if I just played along with them. And... yeah, I can hear their music in my head.”

Emma twists around in the wheelchair, looking at Paul out of the corner of her eye. “So why aren’t you...?”

“Why aren’t I acting like a zombie? I don’t know.” Paul shakes his head. “I know what they wanted me to do. They wanted me to infect you, and then help them infect the rest of the world. But I was just like… no. I’m not doing that.”

“Incredible,” says Emma. “You hate musicals so much you became immune to a zombie virus to avoid starring in one.”

“I mean, you joke,” laughs Paul. “But I genuinely wonder if… shit.”

“What?” Emma asks, detecting the sudden tension in Paul’s voice. “What is it?”

“Cops,” says Paul, his eyes fixed on the rear view mirror. “I dunno if they’re-”

Before he can finish his sentence, a siren starts blaring.

“Fuck,” Paul mutters; he floors the accelerator, and Emma grabs the handles of her wheelchair as the ambulance speeds up.

“Are they infected?” She calls over the roar of the engine and the wailing siren.

“Don’t know!” Paul yells back. “But we can’t afford to stop here. I’m gonna try and lose them at the next exit.”

Emma lurches in her seat as Paul swings the ambulance into the middle lane. She contorts herself as the vehicle straightens out, trying to get a look at the approaching police car, the road ahead… anything to give her an idea of their position.

The police siren cuts out, and is replaced by the squeal of a megaphone. Emma’s fears are confirmed by the amplified voices she hears a moment later:

_“Show us your hands, show us those jazz hands…”_

“Fuck,” groans Paul. “Hang on!”

Emma braces against the wall as the ambulance swings to the right.

_“Get ‘em up, or you’ll end up in cuffs…”_

The ambulance rocks terrifyingly, then levels out. There’s a screech of tyres from the police car as it swerves to try and stay on their tail.

“Damn it,” mutters Paul. “They’re still behind us. Shit, they’re-”

The whole ambulance jolts - Emma screams out loud.

“They’re trying to run us off the road!” Paul yells. “Hold on tight, Emma!”

_“Show us those hands, show us those jazz hands…”_

The zombie-cops’ voices move around to the left hand side of the ambulance.

_“Or we might… be inclined…”_

There’s a deafening crash and the whole world flips…

* * *

“Emma?” Paul calls.

Emma struggles to lift her head. The ambulance is lying on its side, but she’s still strapped into the wheelchair, held sideways against the wall. She fumbles for the buckle to free herself.

Paul clambers in from the driver’s seat, gripping the walking stick he liberated from the hospital. “Front doors are jammed,” he tells her. “We’ll have to get out through the back.” He jumps down onto the right wall of the ambulance that now forms the floor.

“The zombies?” Emma asks, her fingers scrabbling at her seatbelt.

“Right outside,” Paul says. “We’ll have to make a break for it.”

“The wheelchair-”

“No time to detach it; I’ll have to carry you.”

“Fuck. Alright.” Emma finds the seatbelt buckle at last, and undoes it, trying to execute a controlled fall out of the wheelchair and into Paul’s arms. He catches her, but the impact jolts agonisingly through her injured leg. “Fuck!” she repeats.

Outside, the zombies’ voices are audible. _“Step away from the vehicle… step away from the vehicle…”_

Paul stumbles across the floor of the overturned ambulance and reaches the rear doors. “Ready?” he asks Emma.

“Go for it,” she replies.

Paul takes a breath and then slams his shoulder into the doors. The lower one flops open, hitting the tarmac with a loud _clang._ He braces against the upper door, lifting it enough for him and Emma to make their way through, and takes off running down the road.

Emma risks a glance over his shoulder. Two zombie cops are hot on their tail, and more infected civilians are visible further up the road. A couple more cars are approaching, too, driving in the wrong direction down the abandoned freeway.

“Get off the road,” Emma warns. “Before they run us down!”

Paul turns and hops over the metal barrier that runs along the side of the freeway - Emma yelps again at the sudden movement. The road here runs alongside a field of soybeans, its earth still wet from the heavy rainfall a couple of days ago. Paul stumbles through the field at a slow jog, trampling the shoots as he moves.

The zombies are still in pursuit, but they’re walking slowly, almost idly. They fan out as they enter the field, moving to surround Paul and Emma while they’re out in the open.

In the back of her mind, Emma notices how dark it’s gotten. The sky was clear when they left the hospital, but now it’s blanketed by thick, dark clouds that look ready to burst at any moment. Maybe it’ll start raining as the zombies tear them apart; that would certainly make for a dramatic ending.

“They’re surrounding us,” Paul mutters, still trudging doggedly through the muddy field. “I’m sorry, Emma. I think this might be it…”

“Put me down,” Emma whispers. “Make a break for it. We’re not both getting out of this-”

“No!” Paul cuts her off. “I’m not leaving you behind, Emma. Either we both make it, or we both die.”

Emma sighs and cranes her neck around. There’s a wide circle of zombies surrounding them now, all turning to face inwards. Paul turns, searching vainly for a way out, and then comes to a halt.

The zombies start to sing.

 _“What do you want Paul,_ _  
_ _Trying to sneak out, undetected…”_

“Emma,” Paul says. “If you lean on me, can you stand?”

“I think so,” Emma answers. Paul puts her down gingerly and she places an arm around his shoulder, balancing her weight between it and her good leg.

 _“Did you think you could run Paul?_ _  
_ _Out in the open and unprotected…”_

Paul’s left hand is still around Emma’s waist, but his right is free. He grips the metal walking stick and lifts it over his head.

“You want to kill us, then kill us, you alien bastards!” he shouts. “But we’re never going to be in your _fucking_ musical!”

The zombies march forward, closing the circle, arms already reaching out to grab Paul and Emma...

 _“We’re lookin’ for someone matching your description_ _  
_ _Who took our equipment without a prescription…”_

Paul prepares to swing the walking stick…

_“...And now that we’ve got you, we’re gonna tear you apa-a-art...”_

And at that very moment, thunder crashes...

...lightning flashes...

...and touches the end of Paul’s weapon.

A scorching white light surrounds the two humans for just a moment. The zombies hiss and turn away, shielding their eyes.

And then the light fades, leaving behind a crowd of zombies who can do nothing but stare in bewilderment at the empty patch of mud where, just a moment ago, Paul and Emma were standing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And if you’re thinking to yourself, “YetAnotherPersona, you don’t know what you’re talking about! Lightning doesn’t work like that!”
> 
> ...Then fuck you.
> 
>  _You_ don’t know what _you’re_ talking about.
> 
> The zombies were there, and they saw the whole thing.


	3. Lunar Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some things that don't make it into the history books.

On July 20th of 1969, at 20:17 UTC, the Apollo Lunar Module Eagle landed in the Mare Tranquillitatis on Earth’s moon. Six hours and thirty-nine minutes later, a human stepped out onto the lunar surface for the first time in history. All this is a matter of public record, remembered as one of the crowning achievements of humanity and America in the 20th century.

Here is what the public records do not relate: forty-five minutes after stepping onto the moon, the two human astronauts learned that they were not the first creatures to visit it. Someone had been here before them, and that someone had left behind a plaque - a plaque carved in gold, planted firmly in the lunar rock… and written, unbelievably, in modern English. 

Here is what the plaque said:

_ Greetings, humans of Earth. _

_ We offer you our congratulations, and a warning. _

_ We congratulate you on reaching this point. You have taken your first steps into your life as a cosmic civilisation. You are ready to face the existence of other races, from planets and galaxies beyond your own. _

_ Now for the warning. At this moment, an invading force is approaching your planet. Depending on when you discover this message, you may have only a few years before it arrives. We request your help in fighting back against these attackers. _

_ When you have read this, broadcast a message of acknowledgement on the frequency specified below. We will be standing by, ready to answer. _

_ Thank you, and good luck. _

_ Signed, Chorn. _


	4. Paul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul has no idea where he is, but he doesn't seem to be dead.

Paul blinks and turns around.

The space he’s standing in is empty, and seems to go on forever. Everywhere he looks, he sees nothing but pure white.

He glances down at his hands. The walking stick is gone, but he’s wearing the same increasingly tattered suit he’s had on for the past two days now. If this is some sort of afterlife, he hopes there’s no dress code.

He looks around again; there really is nothing here – even his feet seem to be standing on empty air in a way that makes him queasy when he looks down.

He clears his throat. “Hello?” he calls tentatively. “Is anyone there?”

There’s no echo; the void seems to swallow his words. But, after a moment, another voice answers.

“Hold on a moment.”

Paul turns, startled – it sounded like someone spoke right next to his ear. But there’s nobody there.

“Hello?” he repeats nervously.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when a floor appears beneath his feet - white tiles so polished that he can see his own blurred reflection in them.

“I’m just giving you some surroundings,” the voice says – it sounds like it’s a woman speaking. A moment later four plain white walls appear, followed by a ceiling and light fittings. Lastly, a door pops into existence in the wall furthest from where Paul is standing. He blinks in amazement, trying to convince himself he’s not hallucinating.

“Um... thank you?” Paul says hesitantly. “Uh...”

“Call me Chorn,” the voice says, and this time it comes from the doorway. The door opens, and the owner of the voice steps in. She stands a little shorter than Paul – her red hair is tied in an elaborate bun and she’s clad in what looks like a silver-and-grey biker suit. She closes the door behind her and walks to the centre of the room.

“Um, hi, uh... Chorn,” says Paul. “Am I–”

“You’re not dead.”

“Oh.”

There’s an awkward silence; Chorn approaches, stopping a short distance from Paul before speaking again.

“You’re on the Monolith - a space station a few hundred kilometres above Earth.”

“A space station?” Paul asks in disbelief. He looks down again. “Why does gravity feel normal, then?”

“You’re currently connected to a virtual reality system,” Chorn explains. “It simulates normal gravity, and gives us more space to talk. The actual station is much more cramped.”

“Wait, so this is, like, a simulation?”

“Indeed,” says Chorn. “Like in  _ The Matrix,  _ if you’ve seen that movie...?”

“Yeah, I get it,” says Paul hurriedly. “Where’s Emma?”

“She’s in quarantine in the medical bay,” Chorn says. “I’d offer to let you see her, but we can’t connect people to VR if they’ve recently been under general anaesthesia. Rest assured her leg is being treated, and she ought to make a full recovery.”

Paul sighs with relief, but then registers Chorn’s first sentence. “Wait… you said she’s in quarantine?”

Chorn looks uncomfortable. “Yes. It’s just a precaution, but since she’s been exposed to the Apotheosis spores we need to keep her physically isolated from the crew.”

Paul’s stomach sinks. “Is she going to… become like them?”

“We don’t know,” Chorn says plainly. “If she was, we’d expect symptoms to have manifested by now. But we have to be on the safe side.”

“And what about me?” Paul asks. “I’m infected too, right?”

“Yes. You’re physically quarantined as well; all your contact with the crew will be through VR.”

“Right,” says Paul. There’s another brief silence as he tries to figure out what to say next.

“I imagine you have a lot more questions,” Chorn prompts.

“Yeah. I’m not sure where to start, though.”

“I’ll tell you who we are, first of all. As I’ve said, my name is Chorn. I’m a member of an alien race that is allied with Earth in the battle against the Apotheosis.”

“Allied?”

Chorn nods. “Perhaps I should back up a bit. The events unfolding on Earth are only one part of a larger conflict. If you’d like, I can tell you the story so far.”

Paul nods. “Um, yes. Please.”

Chorn makes a strange gesture with her hand, as if turning an invisible dial, and the lights in the room dim until she’s barely visible. Then, on Paul’s right, a new light source appears, followed immediately by a second on his left.

He turns his head from side to side. At the far ends of the room there float two glowing spirals. He recognises them immediately as images of galaxies - exactly like you’d see in a science textbook. But these aren’t just flat projections - they’re three-dimensional, and rotate slowly as Paul watches. He can make out the individual stars in each one’s arms.

“The story of this war,” begins Chorn, “is a tale of two galaxies. This one” - she gestures to the spiral on Paul’s right, which pulses brighter in response - “is the Milky Way. It is the home of your planet, and your species. It is also the home of my people, the Chorn.”

Paul nods. He considers asking why Chorn uses the same name for herself and her race, but he doesn’t want to risk being rude by asking.

“The second galaxy,” says Chorn - and now it’s the left hand spiral’s turn to shine brighter - “is the one you call Andromeda. It is here that we find the homeworld of the Apotheosis.”

Chorn beckons, and the miniature Andromeda floats closer until its outer arms are within touching distance. She points to a speck in the nearest arm, and it starts glowing blue in contrast to the yellowish-white lights around it.

“We call this star Diaton,” she says. “This is the home star of the Apotheosis.”

The star fades from blue to red, and a bright beam of light extends from it, skimming past Paul’s torso. He steps back, startled, and turns to watch the beam’s progress across the room.

“The Chorn have been watching the skies for a long time. Roughly 2.8 million years ago, we detected an unknown spacecraft leaving the Andromeda galaxy, originating from this particular star… and heading for the Milky Way.”

The beam slows down, and halts about halfway between Paul and the Milky Way. It hangs in the air like a thin scarlet thread unspooling from the arm of Andromeda, held taut by an invisible hand.

“The information we could gather from such a great distance was limited, but it told us what we needed to know - this was a hostile craft, built by an advanced race, capable of travelling close to light speed. It was coming to conquer our galaxy, and it would be here within three million years.”

Paul’s bemusement must show on his face, because Chorn smiles grimly when she looks at him. “Humanity is a relatively young species. Three million years may be a long time for you, but the Chorn are used to thinking on such timescales.

“Be that as it may… we rushed to mount a defence. The Chorn homeworld lies near the centre of the Milky Way; but we didn’t want the invaders to get that close. We immediately dispatched ships to the outer arms of the galaxy to establish outposts. And it was on one of these arms that we found Earth.”

She waves her hand again, and a speck lights up on the edge of the Milky Way - this time in green.

“Most of the stars we visited were barren, orbited by planets only fit for mining and harvesting gases. But on Earth, against all odds, we found an abundance of life.

“We knew we couldn’t tear your world apart to build defences here, but likewise we did not wish to leave you at the mercy of our assailants, should you be targeted. There were not yet any creatures here capable of building a space-faring society - only a handful had achieved basic tool use.

“In the end, we found the species that we believed had the best chance of evolving to fight the Apotheosis - a small population of the  _ homo  _ genus, on the African savannah. One of our number visited these early humans and, after observing them more closely, decided they had the potential to become useful allies. We shared our scientific knowledge with you, and used our technology to accelerate your evolution. Our aim was that, when the invaders did arrive, you would be advanced enough to help us repel them.”

Before Paul can recover from this bombshell, the red beam moves again, crossing the remaining distance to the Milky Way and touching the green dot of Earth. The beam vanishes, and Earth’s colour shifts to turquoise.

“As it entered your solar system, the Apohteosis’s craft jettisoned its payload: a rocky shell, no bigger than a car, containing the bare essentials needed to begin spreading on Earth. It effectively dropped off our radar, and we were unable to predict where it would land until hours before impact.

“PEIP informed us that it had touched down in Michigan, and moved to lock down the area. Unfortunately they weren’t prepared for the nature of the attack. We received word yesterday that PEIP’s ground forces have been compromised. As we speak, the Apotheosis is spreading across North America - whether it can be stopped now, only time will tell.

“And now I have a question for you, Paul: did you destroy the meteor?”

“Um… yes,” Paul answers. His mind is still reeling from everything he just heard, and he takes a moment before adding, “I blew it up with one of General McNamara’s grenades.”

Chorn nods. “As I feared.”

“Feared?” says Paul. “Should I… not have done that?”

Chorn sighs. “Hard to say. On the one hand, the meteor was the point of coordination for the Apotheosis on Earth, and its only channel of communication with its homeworld. In destroying it, you severely reduced its ability to strategise and spread effectively.”

“But…?” Paul says.

“But,” explains Chorn, “the explosion kicked up a large number of spores and carried them off Hatchedfield island. Without that grenade, the infection may well have remained isolated.”

Paul’s mouth falls open. “So… it’s spreading through America because of me? Oh God, did I doom humanity?”

“Not necessarily,” says Chorn. “There’s no guarantee that the Apotheosis wouldn’t have found a way off the island anyway, even with Clivesdale having raised the bridge. We’ll never know for sure. What matters now is how we respond to the situation we find ourselves in.”

“Right.” Paul gets the feeling Chorn is sugar-coating to make him feel better, but if that’s the case he doesn’t want to think too hard about the implications.

“Now that I’ve given you some background information,” says Chorn, “it’s time I told you why we brought you to the monolith.”

“Uh-huh?” says Paul. He hadn’t even considered that question yet; there’s already so much to process.

“It seems you have been infected by the Apotheosis, and yet you’ve somehow retained your free will. You hear their music, but you haven’t yielded to its control. To tell you the truth, we have no idea how you’ve done it.”

“Nor do I,” Paul says immediately. “I don’t know why I’m still myself. I just… am.”

Chorn nods. “You’re confused. So are we. But if we work together, we may be able to find answers.” She folds her hands in front of her waist. “I would like to ask something of you, Paul.”

Paul waits in silence - Chorn understands his consent for her to continue, and speaks:

“The fact that you have survived infection by the Apotheosis… it gives us hope that survival may be possible for others, both in your species and in mine. If we fail to stop its spread, we may at least be able to immunise the survivors. Perhaps even cure those who’ve been infected. But we need more data.”

“You want to run tests on me?” guesses Paul.

Chorn nods. “Correct. You carry with you the secret to surviving the Apotheosis. Help us, and you could be the key to saving humankind.”

“Um…” Paul hesitates. “Wow. Okay. Uh...”

“You don’t need to decide anything now,” Chorn says reassuringly. “Even if you say yes, we won’t be able to start until your quarantine ends.”

“Right,” says Paul. “I’ll, uh, think about it.”

Chorn nods, apparently satisfied with his answer, and then gestures with both hands. The floating galaxies vanish, and the room regains its stark white appearance.

“The human crew has been informed of your arrival,” she tells Paul. “They’ll join the VR environment shortly to welcome you on board.” She turns and heads for the door.

“Uh, Sorry, Chorn...” Paul calls out.

She turns back to face him.

“This is… a lot, to take in…” Paul confesses, his voice slightly manic. “Uh… do you have anything to take the edge off? Like… a drink, or something?”

“Paul,” Chorn smiles. “This system is capable of simulating the effects of any substance known to humankind. You bet your ass we have booze.”


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and Emma wonder what lies ahead.

Paul enters the observation chamber to find Emma already there, staring out of the window. She turns to look at him as the door through which he entered hisses shut.

“How are you doing?” Paul asks, kicking off the wall to propel himself across the room to Emma.

“Okay,” she says, adjusting her position to give him space at the window. “Just… processing stuff, y’know?”

“Yeah.” Paul gazes out at the Earth, a small blue ball set against the black expanse of space. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“So you had your first round of tests today, right?” Emma asks. “What was that like?”

“Weird,” Paul replies. “They put electrodes all over my head, and then made me listen to a bunch of showtunes while they… I dunno, measured my brain activity or something. If they actually got anything out of it, they didn’t tell me.”

Emma grimaces. “At least you’re contributing  _ something. _ I’ve been basically useless since we got here. I’m surprised they don’t just chuck me back down to Earth, to be honest.”

“Hey,” Paul says quietly. “You’re not useless.” He reaches out, hesitates, but then risks placing a hand on Emma’s shoulder. She turns to look at him.

“If you weren’t up here with me, I’d probably have gone crazy by now. I’m glad to have you here with me.”

Emma grins cheekily. “For real, Paul? You’ve got the whole crew to hang out with.”

“It’s not the same,” Paul says earnestly. “I don’t  _ hate  _ the crew, but they’re not really my type, y’know?”

“Uh huh,” nods Emma. “Does that mean I  _ am  _ your type?”

Paul feels himself blushing. “I didn’t... I’m not trying to…”

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma says hurriedly. “I’m only teasing. I’m sorry.”

They fall silent, and turn back to the observation window. Earth is still there, revolving slowly as the station progresses through its orbit.

“Any more news from Earth since I last checked?” Paul says eventually, as much to break the silence as anything.

“Nah, same as ever,” Emma answers immediately. “Apotheosis cases are still rising in America; everywhere else is still locked down. Nobody’s nuked anybody else yet, so... y’know, that’s cool, I guess.”

“Uh-huh,” Paul nods.

There’s another short silence - this time Emma is the one to break it.

“Do you think we’ll ever go back there?” she asks.

“Where? Earth or Hatchetfield?”

“I dunno. Both, I guess? Though, to be honest, I’d be happy never to set foot in Hatchetfield again. The place is a fucking deathtrap.”

“Yeah,” says Paul. “Fuck Hatchetfield. As for Earth… they’re not gonna let me back down there while I’m still their only hope of stopping the Apotheosis. Who knows how long it’ll take for them to finish dissecting me? There might not even be an Earth to go back to by the time they’re done.”

Emma hisses through her teeth. “Gotta tell you, I don’t love our entire planet being a pawn in an alien war. I feel like these Chorn people could have tried harder to save us, y’know?”

“I get what you mean,” Paul says. “Still, they’re our best hope right now. We wouldn’t even have gotten off Earth if it weren’t for their weird teleportation beam… thing.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” says Emma. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that.”

And then, much to Paul’s surprise, she puts an arm around his waist and pulls herself up against him. He hesitates before awkwardly embracing him back.

“I know this whole thing sucks,” Emma mumbles. “But I’m glad I at least made it out of there with you.”

“Me too,” Paul admits. “This is going to be tough, but we’re going to make it, Emma. We’re gonna survive. And it’ll be easier together.”

The monolith continues its slow arc around the Earth, its sleek black surface almost indistinguishable from its backdrop of vast interstellar space. To the naked eye, its presence is betrayed only by the stars that wink out of view momentarily as it passes in front of them.

Far below, the town of Hatchedfield lies, empty of all life but the Apotheosis, the epicentre of the largest and most devastating musical production Earth has ever known. The battle for the town is over. The battle for the planet, and for the galaxy, has begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> So I was already kicking around this story concept before the Secret Snape event started, and I decided that a fic exchange was a good opportunity to turn it into a proper story. I'm aware that I've ended on a cliffhanger, and I'd be lying if I said I have any plans to resolve the interstellar conflict I've now set up. But perhaps this AU can provide the fertile ground for someone else to write the full Firebringer/TGWDLM crossover space opera? Who knows.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this adventure, brief though it was!


End file.
